


I Now Walk Into The Wild

by JackalopingIntoTheVoid



Category: X-Campus (X-Men), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, POV Second Person, adopting the child found in the barn, and that person is a feral child, even though he has knives in his hands, who commits murder then struggles in the wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 17:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20195776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackalopingIntoTheVoid/pseuds/JackalopingIntoTheVoid
Summary: The fear swells until it snaps, and you are consumed with fury.You scream with all the power you can muster and the Man startles away. But it’s too late. You are surrounded and enraged and you need to get out and the Men will kill you so the Men must die.Your senses are filled with stabbing pains and the fresh scent of your own blood as your tiny hands form tiny fists and you are small but you are not helpless.





	I Now Walk Into The Wild

**Author's Note:**

> X-Campus, a 4-issue mini series created in Europe and largely unknown, was just about the only non-parody AU to have a legitimately teenage Wolverine and I have had endless questions since. This is my take on how X-Campus' Logan came to be.
> 
> Warnings: Drowning, dangerously low temperatures, troubling unchildlike behaviour (it’s wolverine backstory; it’s not gonna be pretty and this will be worse because he’s a child. then i went and put it in second person like some kind of monster.)

> _The wild, cruel beast is not behind the bars of the cage. He is in front of it._
> 
> _Axel Munthe_

* * *

Your earliest memory is of drowning.

Ice-cold, all encompassing, doing nothing to ease the terrible fire inside. Panic and pain and fire pulse through your body and you can’t scream because your mouth, your lungs, are full of water.

Hands white-hot with pain beat furiously on the sides of your prison, and after what feels like minutes but must have been seconds your fingers find the edge and _grip_. And you **pull**, pull your burning, drowning body up and out of the water with desperate strength, and you gasp and choke and jerk and cough but coughing is like vomiting–

And then you’re breathing, at last you’re _breathing_ but you’re still so cold and you’re still burning and everything is **LOUD**.

Your eyes fly open and the world is dull grey metal and shouting, shouting, shouting. You see the Men, loud and angry and all around you and you are cold and burning and trapped and so so frightened.

One of the Men holds up his hand and shouts louder, makes the rest slow and quiet and stop, makes them hold still, coiled and poised and waiting to strike.

The Man lowers his hand and bares his teeth in an up-curling sliver, and you bare yours against his threat in warning. You’re small and shivering and in pain and the Man is so much bigger than you, and there are so many Men around him just waiting to hurt you and you are so frightened, but you stand your ground and you show no weakness and you bare your teeth in warning.

“Easy there X, I know it’s quite a painful procedure, but it’s pretty impressive that you’re alive! Everyone else died, and they were all grown-ups, not like you. Now, why don’t you remember your place and calm down so the handlers can sort you out, hm?”

The Man’s still moving closer even as you growl, try to make him think you’ll bite, you will, you’ll do it, you’re a threat to him, no no no too close, don’t come any closer please please please–

he reaches out a hand–

to grasp you–

trap you–

hurt–

The fear swells until it snaps, and you are consumed with fury.

You scream with all the power you can muster and the Man startles away. But it’s too late. You are surrounded and enraged and you need to get out and the Men will kill you so the Men must die.

Your senses are filled with stabbing pains and the fresh scent of your own blood as your tiny hands form tiny fists and you are small but you are not helpless.

The next sharp scent is the Man’s blood. He should have heeded your warning.

Then there is the sickly smell of fear, and the Men burst into movement and shouting again, hefting Guns that **BANG BANG BANG** and you scream in anger as you leap from the water. You run from the Guns and you cut down the Men and the Doors and the Walls and then there is no more grey metal, there is Sky and Snow and Trees and Rocks but still there are the Men and the Guns and you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run you run

* * *

> _If you look at little kids and wild animals, these are two groups of things that whenever I’m with them forces me to be in the moment._
> 
> _Dominic Monaghan_

* * *

It’s so cold Outside, but you make do. You eat the Snow and drink the running Water and you’re always cold, but the burning inside has long faded away and you’re never thirsty for long. You’re not alone Outside, there are Bears and Wolves that you keep your distance from, but you watch. You eat what they leave until you learn to kill your own. You’re always cold and often hungry, but you survive.

You live, you grow, you learn. You run and climb and dig and hunt, and you do these things ever faster and better each time. Sometimes you know words, names for things that rise up into your awareness, first Men and Guns then Sky and Snow then all the names of all the things you need to know Outside if you don’t want to die, and you definitely don’t want to die.

But one day you know the name of a Blizzard, and everything changes.

It is so much colder than before and the terrible wind fills your ears and stings your eyes and sinks the cold into your body until you’re sure it will never come out.

You’re so cold but you can’t see, can’t hear, can’t even smell. You stumble lost and senseless through the driving snow, growing more and more tired, but too scared to sleep. You’re so hungry but you couldn’t hunt a thing like this even if you could find it. You want to keep your arms curled in close, but you need them out and ready to find, to fight, though you barely have the strength to keep walking.

Your hands hit something, but they’re numb and you can’t feel what it is, and you end up pressing your whole body against to identify it. It feels a little like a Tree, except it’s flat and– moving, outwards, pulled by the wind but you’re leaning and can’t correct quickly enough and though you dodge the swinging wood you still fall past it and crash to the floor.

The floor feels a lot like the– Door. It’s a Door, and on some level that frightens you but the wind’s not so ferocious beyond it and so despite the smell of Men (you think it’s Men, it’s different from the Men before, more like the faint hints you catch on the air under the sunlight, that the Wolves shy from and the Bears are wary of) you pull yourself Inside and you pull the Door in too as a barrier against the Blizzard and you’re still so cold and so hungry but it doesn’t feel like the Blizzard is trying to tear into you like a carcass anymore.

You crawl in further, swallowing your fear because you _need_ to be Inside, and the relief is almost worth it. You crawl and you curl into the corner and you shake so much it hurts, so much that you can’t sleep no matter how badly you want to, and then the Door opens again.

There is a Man and a Gun and you are terrified.

“Jesus Christ– Heather, it’s a kid!”

The sound of his shout sets you off, and you’re cornered so you snarl and with some effort stiffly unsheathe your claws and the Man shouts again and leaps back as another higher voice shouts as well–

But the pain of the claws bursting free overwhelms you, the last straw for your taxed body, and you hit the floor without ever making a move. Your claws slip back in, your hands too weak and cold to keep them out as they start bleeding sluggishly, and you know the Man will kill you but you can’t get up, can barely move, so you do the only thing you can and you _cry_.

You’ve never cried like this. You’ve felt tears well up in your eyes and slither down your cheeks when you were too hungry or cold or tired not to, but now you’re doing everything you shouldn’t. You’re loud, now, sobbing with fear in front of the Men that will kill you and doing nothing to bluff your way out.

“Oh my God–”

“Heather don’t, just– you saw that, right? He could really hurt you!”

“He’s a little boy, Travis, and you burst in here with a gun! God, it’s a wonder he’s not dead, the poor thing… !”

“Look, just, just hold on a second, we gotta be careful okay?”

“We are **_not_** just– !”

“No, we’re not! Just slow down, Heather!”

The other one doesn’t sound or smell quite like the other Men, and the Gun hasn’t gone **BANG** and you’re not dead. You can’t stop crying. You’re so tired but you’re so scared and you desperately just want the Men to go away.

Movement– you see it, but you can’t react– you shriek as you’re enveloped but it doesn’t hurt, and it’s– it’s–

Not cold. Not just _less_ cold, but **not** cold. Warm. It’s Warm and Soft and you curl up under it as tightly as you can, sobbing harder with relief and confusion, numb fingers trying to grab hold of it, trying to keep it.

“Oh sweetheart…”

Pressure, on your back, and you shriek again but you can’t pull away. You try to curl up tighter but you can’t, and your crying carries on unabated, but there’s no pain and no grabbing and the pressure brings even more Warmth.

“It’s okay, honey, you’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Oh you poor baby, it’s going to be alright, I promise you.”

It’s a hand, you realise, one of the Men, the strange-smelling one who sounds too close. The Warm pressure is moving, now, rubbing your back and in spite of how wrong this is and how scared you are, it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. 

“We’re going to take you into our nice warm home, we’ve got some hot food cooking and lots of lovely fluffy blankets, not to mention a big roaring fire. We’re going to take care of you, I promise.”

A second hand is rubbing your leg, and your crying has petered out into hiccups and whimpers as exhaustion drags you down. You know the words Warm and Food, and the Men have never said words you know.

Another sob wrenches out of you as you’re suddenly scooped off of the floor, but the Warm Softness is wrapped all the way around you and it’s too good even as you’re trapped, and the Man’s arms don’t hurt with tightness, swaying you gently from side to side as even more Warmth presses against you, that strange soft voice still cooing to you and your nose full of a smell that you’ve never smelled before but seems so familiar…

You’re so terribly confused, and you can’t help but still be scared, but you’re so Warm and this voice doesn’t shout, this smell isn’t Men, and when you’re shifted until your face is pressed against something that thrums with a steady heartbeat you pry open your eyes.

Not a Man. No Man has ever looked at you like that, nor held you so tenderly, nor spoken so gently.

Your voice rises in a thin, distressed wail. Your instincts scream that this is bad, that this is close enough to Men, may as well be, that there is a Gun and you must escape. But equally your instincts scream for Warmth, for Food, for the pressure and the rubbing on your sore body. Confused and overwhelmed, you let your head rest where it is on the Soft Warmth of the Not-Man as you weep more quietly than before, too exhausted to sob anymore.

“Oh honey, oh sweetheart, you’re so brave. I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay…”

You fade into a light, unwilling sleep, Warmer than you’ve ever been and rocking lightly, and when you wake again the Warmth is _everywhere_. It feels amazing.

Still wrapped in Softness, you immediately smell the Not-Man, who smiles at you and speaks some more, and you never realised how _good _a voice could sound.

“Hey baby, you feeling better? It’s nice and cosy in here, isn’t it? You’re warming up nicely now, aren’t you? Uh huh, and we’re going to warm you up some more with some lovely tasty food, how about that? Does that sound good? I bet it does, little guy.”

You watch the Not-Man as it speaks, taking in the shapes its mouth makes and the novelty of a face not twisted in anger or hiding venom. There’s more talk of Warmth and Food, and you can smell the Food– it’s a brand new scent but it’s incredible, and you whine quietly as your stomach clenches painfully, growling and demanding. The Not-Man’s face changes, like something’s wrong, and you tense in sudden fear, but then a hand is rubbing your poor empty stomach and it’s cooing like it did before, then turning to look at something else before raising its voice.

You’re weeping again, your stomach hurting with hunger and the Not-Man is being loud but you can smell the Food coming closer.

And then the Not-Man has it in hand, is propping you upright against its body, and you eagerly open your mouth as the rich-smelling liquid is lifted to your face, and you don’t care about the metal tang of the spoon because what you’re swallowing is Warm and tastes indescribable and is full of soft chunks that are so easy to chew and immediately begin to soothe the gnawing hunger.

You open your mouth again, making urgent noises when it isn’t immediately filled, but another spoonful quickly finds you and you whimper a little, tearing up all over again but this time because it’s just _so **good**_.

Sniffling, Warm and eating, something clicks into place. You were cold, and you cried, and you were made Warm. You were hungry, and your stomach growled, and now you’re being Fed. The Not-Man is Warming and Feeding you and that’s so strange, strange enough that it’s taken you this long to figure it out.

Mama.

This is Mama. Mama who is Soft and smells good and makes sure her babies don’t die. You’ve seen Mama Wolves and Mama Bears, but you are not a Wolf or a Bear or a Man and neither is Mama. This is **your **Mama. She must be!

You can smell her on the Man, too, and he doesn’t have the Gun, and he’s not shouting, and he doesn’t smell like the other Men really, not once you get a really good whiff of him, so while you watch him carefully you let his large hand cup your foot. Mama would protect you if he tried to kill you, that’s what Mamas do. Perhaps this is Papa?

His hand is even Warmer than Mama’s, and he rubs your still-cold, aching foot in a way that makes your skin happy. Yes, he’s certainly not a Man, and he’s pressing close to Mama’s side, sharing their scents. Yes, he must be Papa.

“God above. He’s so small! But his face– he looks too old to be this small.”

“How long has he been out there?”

“Christ, who knows. But he should be blistered and frostbitten, running around in the snow with no shoes. Hell, should be dead in the snow with no clothes at all. You’re something special alright, aren’t you kid? Must be sore, though. Hungry little guy, too. But then you would be, out in that cold.”

“Who would do this, Travis? What kind of monster would abandon such a sweet little boy like this?”

“… You saw his hands as well as I did, Heather. He wouldn’t even need to hurt anyone with those before someone wanted him gone.”

“That shouldn’t matter. He’s someone’s _son_.”

“Sounds like he’s probably ours, now.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Of course not.”

You’re so Warm and sleepy and wrapped in Softness, with Mama and Papa holding you close. Your stomach is all full now, full like it’s never been and gurgling away, and Mama’s rubbing it like Papa’s rubbing your cold feet and you’re crying again because it’s all so **much**. You cling to Mama, fingers curling and gripping tightly, and you cry even louder when Papa lets go of your feet and you stretch them out of the Softness towards him and don’t stop until he’s holding them again.

You nuzzle into Mama’s chest, wiping snot and tears on her, and you yawn into her bosom. She coos and pets and presses her lips against the top of your head and for the first time in your life you’re Safe.

* * *

> _The land created me. I’m wild and lonesome. Even as I travel the cities, I’m more at home in the vacant lots._
> 
> _Bob Dylan_

* * *

The truck comes to a stop. You raise a hand in thanks to the driver as you take your leave. Now that you’re across the border, you need US currency. Fortunately, you’ve gotten quite good at pickpocketing on your flight from your home, though so far you’ve only managed to get your hands on loose change and a dollar bill, and you haven’t gotten a look at how much it’s worth yet.

You still feel guilty for stealing from your parents back in Canada, but the Men weren’t going to leave them alone unless you weren’t there anymore, and you need money to get anywhere in the human world. You’d miss the wilderness’ simplicity if not for the blessing of clothes and the bag you have with you.

They’re never going to stop chasing you. Escaping the country won’t make them give up. You don’t know why they’re so persistent or what they want you for, but you have to get them as far away from Mom and Dad as you can. You’ll lead them all the way across the planet if you have to.

You duck into the truck stop diner and rustle through your bag. Oh. Oh, shit. The bill’s worth 100 bucks and you can’t hand that over. You’re short for a fifteen year old and you look like you’ve hitch-hiked across the border, and while you seem to have passed as white on the way here (thank fuck for green eyes and stereotypes) anyone really looking at you might realise you’re not just tanned. There’s no way on earth you can buy anything with this without getting detained, and the change isn’t enough for anything either. Fuck it all, you’ll have to go hungry again– hell, you’ll probably have to ditch the 100 for your own safety. Fuck!

You shove the money back in your bag, turn on your heel, and come face to face with a bald man in a wheelchair. You… you didn’t hear him come in. Didn’t smell him, either, though you can now. That’s really weird and really unsettling, and somehow his benevolent smile does nothing to calm you because the look in his eyes is like he thinks it’s funny that he startled you. You move to the side so he can go past you.

“Uh… hi, sorry. I was just leaving, you can go ahead.”

“But you only just came in!” The man smiled, gesturing towards your bag. “Though I suppose that $100 would look a little suspicious from a young man travelling alone.”

Oh, fuck.

“Why don’t we double up? Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back.”

Wait, what?

“Uh…”

But you can’t find it in you to protest, though you don’t know why. There’s just something about this guy…

Unnerved as you are with the situation, you can’t bring yourself to regret going along with it when you’re halfway through a double cheeseburger with a side of onions rings and a glass of coke. It’s the first hot meal you’ve had in weeks, and the whole thing was no problem at all. It shouldn’t have been that easy, but it was and you’re not going to waste the opportunity.

The bald guy is Professor Charles Xavier and he teaches biology at the Worthington Foundation in Greenwich, Connecticut, which is a special school for gifted children. He also really likes to tell strangers his life story, apparently.

That’s fine. You’re not sure what he’s doing out here, but if he’s lonely and willing to pay for your food in exchange for a listening ear; well, your hearing’s pretty damn good.

Plus he seems… really passionate about education, which is nice you suppose. Too many people in the job seem to be there to shit on kids, but there’s a spark about the Professor that spoke of something more.

“You know… you seem like the kind of driven young man that would do well at the Worthington Foundation.”

You damn near choke.

“Not really.”

He raises his eyebrow, seemingly amused– but he doesn’t say anything else on the subject.

When you’ve both finished your meals the Professor asks for help manoeuvring out of the diner. Awful trusting of him, you think, but you owe him and it’s no trouble.

Once you’re both outside, the Professor starts going through his wallet, picking out the amount to cover his order after handing back the overall change. He’s actually making good on this, and you’re baffled but not complaining as he hands you reasonably-sized bills to use later.

But then you smell the Men.

You whip your head around, adrenaline flooding your system as you isolate their sounds and smells from the general public around them. They’re not too far off– you only picked up on them because the wind changed and brought their scents to you. You have to move, now.

“Would you mind walking me back to the car? It’s gotten dark rather faster than I’d thought it would, and I’d feel safer if you accompanied me.”

You nod and take the wheelchair’s handles. That’s rude, probably, and normally you wouldn’t if you weren’t asked but you need to _go_, quickly, and the Professor doesn’t seem at all uncomfortable with it.

A couple of big guys give the Professor the eye– he looks like he’s got money in suit like that– but you know how to make yourself look like a credible threat to most (though it’s not like you’re harmless) so you square your shoulders and glare until they look away.

The Professor lets you know when you reach his car, a hired chauffer service by the looks of it and you’d wonder why he paid to be driven out here if you weren’t acutely aware of the Men still _far too close_.

So when he offers you a ride, you don’t think twice. You have to get out of here.

He asks you where you’d like to go, and you blurt out _anywhere _because you don’t have time, come on, let’s _go_.

It’s only when you’re a few miles down the road that you start to calm down… and realise what an awkward position you’ve put yourself in.

You tear your gaze from the window, no longer looking for signs of pursuit, and find the Professor looking back at you. Waiting for you.

You know things. Things no one else seems to know, even if they’re right next to you and looking at the same thing. You know when a bear is bluffing, you know when a storm is on its way, you know when a stranger is dangerous. Dad had asked once, how you did it, but you didn’t know how to explain. You just _know_ in that way you do, the sixth sense that’s kept you alive all these years.

The Professor knows you’re running.

“You recall I mentioned you would do well at the Worthington Foundation?”

He gives you time to respond but continues when you don’t.

“I stand by that. I would like to invite you to be a part of our school.”

You can’t, even if you wanted to you can’t. You crossed the border illegally and now you think about it you’re not sure you legally exist in Canada either. Did your parents sort that out for you? You don’t know, but after being home schooled for three years you were put into fourth grade, so you suppose they must have done.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle the paperwork. There’s dorms on-campus and the school provides meals to students so don’t fret about that either.”

“Why?”

It’s the only way you can get the question out. So much wrapped up in that one word.

“As I told you, the Worthington Foundation is for _gifted_ students. We would be honoured to have someone such as yourself attending.”

He’s spent the entirety of his time with you watching you eat gracelessly and then act twitchy. There’s absolutely nothing _gifted_ about what he’s seen of you.

“Oh yeah? What makes me so desirable, huh?”

“We’re not looking for geniuses. We want people who are determined, quick-thinking, people with good perception and observational skills. The kinds of skills that are valuable in the working world but simply aren’t provided for by the average curriculum. There are exceptional students out there being failed by the system all the time– these are the people we look for. To provide the opportunities you need to succeed and a safe, nurturing environment in which to realise your potential.”

He’d picked up all of that? Well, you figure it makes sense he’d have the kind of thing he’s looking for, and you’re certain there aren’t many out there as _perceptive_ as you… what the hell. Why not? Free room and board, legitimised paperwork, and a registered student living on a Greenwich campus would fly under the Men’s radar, seeing as they’re chasing a homeless wild child out of Canada.

If it comes down to it, you can always run again.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll give your school a try.”

“That’s all I can ask of you. I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Logan.”


End file.
